


sin slave of sensation

by simplyclockwork



Category: Sherlock - Fandom, Sherlock BBC
Genre: M/M, Smut, angry smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-23
Updated: 2011-11-23
Packaged: 2017-10-26 11:19:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/282434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/simplyclockwork/pseuds/simplyclockwork
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt fic; title inspired by 'Biscuit' - Portishead</p>
            </blockquote>





	sin slave of sensation

**Author's Note:**

> The person who prompted this wanted angry sex, and creeper Jim.

They return from the case angry; Sherlock's been an ass, and John's apparently stupid (as he's been told quite clearly by his insufferable flatmate), and neither of them are feeling particularly loving as they both shove roughly past one another through the door of 221B.

Sherlock tosses his jacket on the floor, the scarf follows; stomps up the stairs and slams the door, leaving John standing in the entry way with a handful of angry words, and rain in his hair.

"God damn consulting detectives," he mutters; hangs his jacket neatly on a hook and leaves Sherlock's sodden outerwear to grow mold on the floor as he takes the stairs slowly. His shoulder aches, there's the ghost of pain in his leg, and he's soaked to the bone. And all for... what? A fist to the gut and angry words from his flatmate because, apparently, their quarry escaping is all John's fault. Shaking his head, he pulls at the door knob, finds it locked, and slams his fist against the wood. From inside, there's a sigh and a noise of scorn, and John's blood burns, along with his face.

"Sherlock. Open the door. Right now."

Something in his voice obviously leaves no room for argument, as Sherlock does as told, nearly taking the army doctor out in the process, and John sputters, pushing past into the flat.

"Really, John," Sherlock says haughtily; stalking away to the couch. "You need only knock. Stop being so childish." And, really, that's what does it. Being called 'childish', when he's not the one pouting in a tight ball on the sofa, mouth turned down in a sulk. He grits his teeth; pulls his hair and marches over to the man on the couch.

"Sherlock, sometimes you just... god, you're such a--" But whatever Sherlock is, John's a bit too enraged to manage the wording, so he puts his hands on Sherlock's shoulder instead, and pushes, shoves, drives him down against the cushions. "God, you piss me off so much, you know that?"

Sherlock's eyes widen, then narrow, and he's yanking at John's arms, pushing and pulling at the same time, and John cannot for the life of him figure out the detective's aim.

"What the hell are you doing, you insufferable git?" He demands, twisting his wrists as Sherlock locks long fingers around them and yanks; pulls John off his feet and onto the couch, onto him. "Sherlock, what--" He doesn't quite manage coherency before Sherlock's mouth is on his, angry, insistent and demanding, tongue pushing past John's lips and leaving no room for refusal.

John shakes his head; kneels on either side of Sherlock's legs, and presses into the kiss with one of his own: needy and taking. They roll together, move until their legs tangle at the ankles, pushing and grabbing and fighting for the upper hand.

"Dammit, Sherlock," John huffs, scowls, and manages to wrestle the taller man onto his back; begin working at the buttons of his dress shirt, almost tearing the fabric. "John," Sherlock growls back, plucking at John's hands and looking at him with dark, ember-hot eyes. "Don't you dare rip my shirt, John."

"Shut up." Their mouths meet again, press hard and eager and rough, and the clothes are being slipped off with astonishing speed, until they're skin to skin, Sherlock making rough noises in the hollow of John's throat as he marks the doctor with his teeth.

They set a sloppy rhythm of bump and grind; pressing into one another and driving friction against each other, mouths meeting in messy, half-aimed kisses, some landing on lips, some not quite; marking cheek bones, chins, noses, jaws and leaving bruises and imprints of teeth.

It's not long before Sherlock's arching beneath him, and John's grabbing him by the hips, driving down and back, striving for a few last moments of delicious push and pull, before he's over the edge as well; head thrown back, back curved and nails digging into the skin of Sherlock's waist.

Sherlock goes still first; collapses with John breathing hard on top of him, his head tucked beneath Sherlock's chin, both panting and gasping as they come down from agonized climax.

"You're still an ass," John mutters, digging his nose hard into the crease between Sherlock's collar bones. He recieves a chuckle and a wince for his trouble.

"And you're still an idiot." Sherlock shoots back; curves his arms over John's back and pinches his side lightly. John replies with a growl, deep in his chest, then sags, spent.

A phone rings from the pile of clothes beside the couch, and Sherlock fumbles his hands through the discarded fabric until he pulls out the pink phone; brings it to his ear.

"My my," croons a shaky, tear-thick voice: another hostage. Moriarty again. "Aren't we--" a waver. "--such dirty boys?"


End file.
